


Comfort in the Familiar

by helsinkibaby



Series: Protection [9]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-08
Updated: 2004-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With her sister missing, Ellie needs to be alone. One person knows where to find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort in the Familiar

The sun is just going down in an early evening Washington sky, one of the longest days of her life nearly over. There's a distinct chill in the air as she sits on the bench in the Sculpture Garden, so she pulls her jacket just a little tighter around her. She knows that it won't help though, knows that it's not the air that's making her cold, just like she knows that pulling the jacket tighter won't make her warm.

She's been cold ever since the door to the hospital emergency room burst open and John, one of her agents, had come in, talking into his wrist when he saw her there, but not approaching her, probably mindful of the twenty year old woman that she and the other doctors were working on at the time. Her blood had frozen to ice at the sight of him, his white face, his worried eyes, and she couldn't help but remember the last time that agents had burst unannounced through her door. 

She'd been in her apartment, having just finished watching her father's town hall speech in Rosslyn live on TV. 

She'd finished what she was doing as quickly as she could, the attending physician being more than accommodating, and she'd gone over to John, not beating around the bush, asking simply, "What happened?"

She'd been sure that it was her father, that something had happened to him. 

But it wasn't her dad. It was Zoey. 

She'd walked out of the hospital then and there, had wanted to be on her way to Washington within the hour, but there had been delays and protocol and other directives from the Secret Service, so it had been morning before she'd arrived at the White House. She'd thought she'd feel better once she was there, once she saw her parents, but as if things weren't bad enough, the world found out about something her father had done, and all hell had broken loose, both in the media and in the kitchen of the Residence. 

She'd done her best to hold herself together, and she'd managed fairly well, had given her father a hug when he'd needed one, had gone to Mass with her family. 

But through it all, she'd kept thinking that things shouldn't be happening like this, that she should have been in Washington all along, taking care of her baby sister. She'd had to work, she'd told Zoey earlier in the month, that asking for time off because of her sister's graduation might have looked like she was the President's daughter asking for special favours. Zoey had understood, laughingly telling her that she'd have to come to France during the summer and see her there. 

She hadn't asked for time off when she'd left the hospital, but right now, she didn't care about it looking like she was asking for special favours. 

Her little sister is who-knows-where enduring who-knows what, and technically, she's not the President's daughter anymore either. A fresh shiver runs the length of her body as she thinks of all the times over the past few years that she's wished that was true, the times that she's prayed for that. 

She didn't want it like this though. 

They'd got back from Mass and all the family had been in the Residence together when she'd known that she needed to be alone, that if she stayed in the same room with them any longer, she was going to lose control of herself. So she'd escaped out here, for some air, some solitude. 

So she jumps when she hears a voice just behind her. "I've got Quinn," it says, and she smiles to herself and rolls her eyes simultaneously; the first because of course it would be him who found her here, the second because no matter how long she's been saddled with it, she still hates her codename. 

"That's not going anywhere soon, is it?" she says dryly, half-turning so that she can look at him over her shoulder. She just about keeps back a gasp of shock, because in a time when everyone is feeling the strain and looking like it, he looks worse than most. He still manages to flash her a quick smile though, him knowing better than most just how much she hates that name, and the smile still makes her heart skip a beat after all this time. 

"No," he tells her with a laugh in his voice; then the laugh vanishes, and instead of Wesley, he's Special Agent Davis all of a sudden as he comes around beside her, looking down at her. "And you shouldn't disappear without letting the agents know where you're going." 

She bristles at the words, can't help herself, though she knows that he's right. "There are agents crawling over every inch of this place," she tells him sharply. "Can you please just not-"

He holds up his hands when she gets that far, and she stops, turning away from him, dipping her head in frustration. Her hair falls down, hiding him from her peripheral view, and she misses the sight of him, but she doesn't move. "I'm not starting Ellie," he says, his voice one part gentle to two parts tired. "Believe it or not, Ron Butterfield ordered me to take a break, get some food, some rest. I didn't even know you were here until I heard the request for a twenty on you."

She can hear the sincerity in his voice, and it sends a wave of guilt rushing through her. "I wasn't supposed to be," she tells him. "I had to work…but once I heard…" She breaks off, shaking her head, slapping one hand against the bench. "I should have been here." 

Her words are bitter, full of self-recrimination, and he sits down beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. It still brings back a rush of memories, and she steals herself against them. She can't go down that path again, not now, not with her emotions all stirred up. "I was there," he reminds her, once more in that gentle voice, but this time, she can hear guilt warring with the tiredness. "And trust me, it doesn't make much of a difference." 

There's nothing she can say to that, so they just sit there for a long moment. She breaks the silence, asking, "How did you find me?"

He chuckles, and the sound makes her brave, makes her reach up and tuck her hair behind her right ear, and when she puts her right hand down, she rests it on the bench between them. "I knew that everyone else thinks you hate the Sculpture Garden," he says simply, and she glances across at him, lifting an eyebrow. 

"I do hate the Sculpture Garden," she tells him, and his gaze slides over to her out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching. In that instant, she's sure that he remembers the last time they sat here as well as she does, and she wishes that she could turn back time, be there again when she'd walked on air after just one look and had danced without music for the longest time. 

"Which is why you come here when you don't want to be found," he counters, and there's nothing she can say to that either, because he knows her too well. He always has. 

And because he knows her so well, because she knows him just as well, she can be honest with him, ask him the question that she can't ask anyone else. "Do you think she's still alive?" 

Her heart quickens as she waits for his response, seems to stop when he lets out a long deep breath. "We have the ransom note," he tells her, but that's a non-answer, and they both know it. 

She's not going to let him away with it though, presses the issue. "But do you think she's still alive?" 

He breathes in deeply again, lets it out slowly again before he meets her gaze. "I don't know," he tells her frankly, and she feels a little bit of hope die with those three little words. Her eyes fill with tears and she dips her head, and the next thing she hears is the same voice, the same words, that she heard a lifetime ago in a deserted cabin in Camp David. "Are you all right?"

She tilts her head up to the sky, sees how much bluer it is than a few minutes ago, and she has to swallow hard before she can reply. "My baby sister is missing. My dad's turned over the White House to his sworn enemy, the press are crucifying him, Mom and Liz can hardly look at him, and Molly… " The thought of the Secret Service Agent who had been her friend causes her throat to constrict almost painfully, and one lone tear makes its way down her cheek. 

"I know you two were close," he tells her after a second, and she nods.

"She was there for me in some rough spots," she says simply, but she doesn't tell him what they were, about the one in particular that she thinks of daily. She knows that Molly didn't tell him either, that the agent took that secret to her grave, and the knowledge brings forth another wave of tears which she struggles to keep back, squeezing her eyes shut. 

She doesn't open them again until she feels a warm hand closing over hers, until she hears his voice just as warm. "I'm sorry."

She looks over at him then, and his dark eyes are filled with worry for her. It's then that she realises what he's going through, realises how selfish she's being. "What about you?" she asks. "How are you?"

He shrugs, looking straight ahead, but the pressure on her hand increases. "I've had better times," he admits. She hasn't taken her eyes off him, so she sees something light in his eyes, looks at him curiously as he turns to her with something approaching a smile. "You know what this almost reminds me of?"

At first she doesn't, but then she does. The two of them, sitting close together, alone but not alone. "Friday night at the movies," she murmurs, smiling too, remembering a simpler time when things had seemed so complicated. 

He nods, his smile matching hers. "Friday night at the movies," he echoes, and he holds her gaze like he's holding her hand for a long moment. 

Something about the moment, about the night, breaks down the last of her reserve, lets her be honest with him. "I've missed you," she says quietly. "I know…I mean, I know that nothing can…that we could never…"

Her halting words are cut short by him. "I know," he says, just as quietly. "And I've missed you too." 

Despite everything, she smiles at the words, at the look in his eyes when he says them, and for just a second, the world doesn't seem as bad, as scary anymore. "Can we just sit here for a while?" she asks, hating the pleading tone in her voice, but he doesn't seem to mind, because he nods. 

"I'd like that," he says simply, turning his head, looking straight ahead to the Sculpture Garden, his hand still holding hers. Her gaze follows his, and the two of them sit there for a long time, taking what comfort they can in the familiar.


End file.
